In the Claws of the German Eagle by Albert Rhys Williams

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havoc of war, I sat on the stoop of our little inn. A great rumbling ofcannon came from the direction of Tongres. A sentry shot rang outon the frontier just across the river which flowed not ten rods away.This was the Meuse, which ran red with the blood of thecombatants, and from which the natives drew the floating corpsesto the shore. Now its gentle lapping on the stones mingled with thesubdued murmur of our talk. In such surroundings my new friendsregaled me with stories of pillage and murder which the refugeeshad been bringing in from across the border. All this produced adistinct depreciation in the value that I had hitherto attached to mypermit to go visiting across that border. Souten's declarations offriendship for America had been most voluble. It began dawningon me that his apparently generous and impulsive action mightbear a different interpretation than unadulterated kindness.

At this juncture, I remember, a great light flared suddenly up. Itwas one of the fans of a wind-mill fired by the Germans. In theforeground we could see the soldiers standing like so many graywolves silhouetted against the red flames. In that light it did seemthat motives other than pure affection might have prompted thePolice Commissioner's action. The hectic sleep of the night wasbroken by the endless clatter of the hoofs of the German cavalrypushing south.

My courage rose, however, with the rising sun. In the morning Iclimbed to the lookout on the hill. The hosts had vanished. Atrampled, smoldering fire-blackened land lay before me. But therewas the lure of the unknown. I walked down to where the greatNetherlands flag proclaimed neutral soil. The worried Dutchpickets honored the signature of Souten and with one step I wasover the border into Belgium, now under German jurisdiction. Thehelmeted soldiers across the way were a distinct disappointment.They looked neither fierce nor fiery. In fact, they greeted me with asmile. They were a bit puzzled by my paper, but the seal seemedecht-Deutsch and they pronounced it "gut, sehr gut." I explainedthat I wished to go forwards to Liege.

"Was it possible?"

For answer they shrugged their shoulders.

"Was it dangerous?"

"Not in the least," they assured me.

The Germans were right. It was not dangerous--that is, for theGermans. By repeatedly proclaiming the everlasting friendship ofGermany and America, and passing out some chocolate, I madegood friends on the home base. They charged me only not toreturn after sundown, giving point to their advice by relating how,on the previous night, they had shot down a peasant woman andher two children who, under the cloak of darkness, sought toscurry past the sentinels. They told this with a genuine note of griefin their voices. So, with a hearty hand-shake and wishes for thebest of luck, they waved adieu to me as I went swinging out on thehighroad to Liege.

Chapter VI

In The Black Wake Of The War

A half mile and I came for the first time actually face to face withthe wastage of war. There was what once was Mouland, the littlevillage I had seen burning the night before. The houses stoodroofless and open to the sky, like so many tombstones over adeparted people. The whitewashed outer walls were all shining inthe morning sun. Inside they were charred black, or blazing yetwith coals from the fire still slowly burning its way through woodand plaster. Here and there a house had escaped the torch.

By some miracle in the smashed window of one of these houses abright red geranium blossomed. It seemed to cry for water, but Idared not turn aside, for fear of a bullet from a lurking sentry. Inanother a sewing-machine of American make testified to the thriftand progressiveness of one household. In the last house as I leftthe village a rocking-horse with its head stuck through the opendoor smiled its wooden smile, as if at any rate it could keep goodcheer even though the roofs might fall.

My road now wound into the open country; and I was heartily gladof it, for the hedges and the houses at Mouland provided finecoverts for prowling German foragers or for Belgians looking forrevenge. Dead cows and horses and dogs with their sides rippedopen by bullets lay along the wayside. The roads were deepprinted with the hoofs of the cavalry. The grain-fields wereflattened out. Nine little crosses marked the place where ninesoldiers of the Kaiser fell.

This smiling countryside, teeming with one of the densestpopulations in the world, had been stripped clean of everyinhabitant. Along the wasted way not the sign of a civilian, or forthat matter even a soldier, was to be seen. I was glad even of thepresence of a pig which, with her litter, was enjoying the unwontedpleasure of rooting out her morning meal in a rich flower-garden.She did not reciprocate, however, with any such fellow feeling.Perhaps of late she had seen enough of the doings of the genushomo. Surveying me as though I had been the author of all thisdestruction, she gave a frightened snort and plunged into a nearbythicket.

I craved companionship of any living creature to break the spell ofdeath and silence. I was destined to have the wish gratified inabundance. Fifteen minutes brought me to the outskirts of Vise,and there, coming over the hills and wending their way down to theriver, were two long lines of German soldiers escorting wagons ofthe artillery and the commissariat. They came slowly andnoiselessly trudging on and I was upon them as they crossed themain road before I realized it. The men were covered with dust; sowere the horses. The wagons were in their somber paint of gray.There was something ominous and threatening in the long sullenline which wound down over the hill. The soldiers were evidentlytired with the tedious uneventful march, and the drivers weregoaded to irritability by the difficulty of the descent. Could I haveretreated I would have done so with joy and would never havestopped until my feet were set on Holland soil.

But I dared not do it. As the train came to a stop, I started bravelyacross the road. A soldier, dropping his gun from his shoulder,cried:

"Halt!"

"Is this the way to Vise?" I asked.

"Perhaps it is," he replied, "but what do you want in Vise?"

As he spoke, he kept edging up, pointing his bayonet directly atme. A bayonet will never look quite the same to me again. Totalretreat, as I remarked, was out of the question. My inwardanatomy, however, did the next best thing. As the bayonet pointcame pressing forward, my stomach retired backward. I could feelit distinctly making efforts to crawl behind my spine. At my firstword of German his face relaxed. Ditto my stomach.

"You are an American," he said. "Well, good for that. I don't knowwhat we would have done were you a Belgian. Our orders are tosuffer no Belgian in this whole district."

Then he began an apologia which I heard repeated identicallyagain and again, as if it were learned by rote: "The Germans hadpeacefully entered the land; boiling hot water was showered onthem from upper stories; they were shot at from houses andhedges; many soldiers had thus been killed; the wells had beenpoisoned. Such acts of treachery had necessarily broughtreprisals, etc., etc." It was the defense so regularly served up toneutrals that we learned in time to reproduce it almost word forword ourselves.

We all rise to the glorification of suffering little Belgium. Whateverbrief we may hold for her though, we ought not to picture even herpeasant people as a mild, meek and inoffensive lot. That isn't thesort of stuff out of which her dogged and continuing resistance waswrought. That isn't the mettle which for two weeks stopped up theGerman tide before the Liege forts, giving the allies two weeks tomobilize, and all they had asked the Belgians for was two or threedays of grace. But before the German avalanche hurled itself onLiege it was this peasant population which bore the first brunt ofthe battle.

A mistake in the branching roads brought this home to me. Iturned off in the direction of Verviers and was puzzled to see theroad on either side strewn with tree-trunks, their sprawling limbsstill green with leaves. It was along this highway that the invadersfirst entered Belgium. The peasants, turning their axes loose onthe poplars and the royal elms that lined the road, had filled it witha tangle of interlocking limbs.

The Imperial army arrived with cannon which could smash a fort topieces as though it were made of blue china, but of what availwere these against such yielding obstructions? Maddened thatthese shambling creatures of the soil should delay the militarypromenade through this little land, officers rushed out and heldtheir pistols at the heads of the offenders, threatening to blow theirbrains out if they did not speedily clear the way. Many a peasantdid not live to see his house go up in flames--his dwelling dyed byhis own blood was now turned into a funeral pyre. These were thefirst sacrificial offerings of Belgium on the altar of herindependence.

I now entered Vise, or rather what once had been the little city ofVise. It was almost completely annihilated and its three thousandinhabitants scattered. Through the mass of smoking ruins Ipushed, with the paving-stones still hot beneath my feet. Quiteunawares I ran full tilt into a group of soldiers, looking as ugly anddirty as the ruins amongst which they were prowling.

The green-gray field-uniform is a remarkable piece of obliterativecoloration. I had seen it blend with grass and trees, but in thisinstance it fitted in so well with the stones and debris they werepoking over that I was right amongst them without warning. Theystraightened up with a sudden start and scowled at me. Hollandersand Belgians had faithfully assured me that such marauding bandswould shoot at sight. Here was an excellent test-case. Threehundred marks, a gold watch and a lot of food which crammed mypockets would be their booty.

I took the initiative with the bland inquiry, "What are you huntingfor, corpses?"

"No," they responded, pointing to their mouths and stomachs,"awful hungry. Hunting something to eat."

I bade a mental farewell to my food-supplies as I emptied out mypockets before these ravagers. I expected everything to begrabbed with a summary demand for more. From these despoilersof a countryside I was ready for any sort of a manifestation--any,except the one that I received. With one accord they refused totake any of my provisions. I recovered from my surprise sufficientlyto understand that they were thanking me for my good will whilethey were constantly reiterating:

"It is your food and you will need every bit of it."

In the name of camaraderie I persuaded each to take a piece ofbread and chocolate. They received this offering with profoundgratitude. With much cautioning and many solemn Auf Wiedersehensbestowed upon me, I was off again.

Below Vise an entirely new vista opened to me. Tens of thousandsof soldiers were marching over the pontoon bridges already flungacross the river. Perhaps five hundred more were engaged inbuilding a steel bridge which seemed to be a hurried butremarkable piece of engineering. It was replacing the old structurewhich had been dynamited by the Belgians, and which now lay atangled mass of wreckage in the river.

For the next eight miles to Jupilles the country was quite as muchalive as the first four miles were dead. It was swarming with themilitary. Through all the gaps in the hills above the River Meusethe German army came pouring down like an enormous tidalwave--a tidal wave with a purpose, viz: to fling itself against theAllies arranged in battle line at Namur, and with the overwhelmingmass of numbers to smash that line to bits and sweep onresistlessly into Paris. I thought of the Blue and Red wall of Frenchand English down there awaiting this Gray-Green tide of Teutons.

By the hundreds of thousands they were coming; patrols of cavalryclattering along, the hoof-beats of the chargers coming withregular cadence on the hard roads; silent moving riders mountedon bicycles, their guns strapped on their backs; armoredautomobiles rumbling slowly on, but taking the occasional spaceswhich opened in the road with a hollow roaring sound and at aterrific pace; individual horsemen galloping up and down the roadwith their messages, and the massed regiments of dust-begrimedmen marching endlessly by.

I was glad to have the spell which had been woven on me brokenby strains of music from a wayside cafe, or rather the remains of acafe, for the windows had been demolished and wreckage wasstrewn about the door, but the piano within had survived theravages. Though it was sadly out of tune, the officer, seated on abeer keg, was evoking a noise from its battered keys, and to itsaccompaniment some soldiers were bawling lustily:

"Deutschland, Deutschland uber Alles!"

The only other music that echoed up along those river cliffs camefrom a full-throated Saxon regiment.

Evidently the Belgians from Vise to Liege had not roused the ire ofthe invaders as furiously as had the natives on the other side ofVise. They had as a whole established more or less friendlyrelations with the alien hosts.

On the other side of Vise nothing had availed to stay the wrath ofthe Germans. Flags of truce made of sheets and pillow-cases andwhite petticoats were hung out on poles and broom handles; butmany of these houses before which they hung had been burned tothe ground as had the others.

One Belgian had sought for his own benefit to conciliate theGermans, and as the Kaiser's troops at the turn of the road cameupon his house, there was the Kaiser's emblem with the double-headed eagle raised to greet them. The man had nailed it high upin an apple tree, that they might not mistake his attitude of trucklingdisloyalty to his own country, hoping so to save his home. But let itbe said to the credit of the Germans, that they had shown theircontempt for this treachery by razing this house to the ground, andthe poor fellow has lost his earthly treasures along with his soul.

I now came upon some houses that were undamaged andshowed signs of life therein. Below Argenteau there was a vine-covered cottage before which stood a peasant woman guardingher little domain. Her weapon was not a rifle but several buckets ofwater and a pleasant smile. I ventured to ask how she used thewater. She had no time to explain, for at that very moment acolumn of soldiers came slowly plodding down the dusty road. Shemotioned me away as though she would free herself from whateverstigma my presence might incur. A worried look clouded her face,as though she were saying to herself: "I know that we have beenspared so far by all the brigands which have gone by, but perhapshere at last is the band that has been appointed to wipe us out."

This water, then, was a peace-offering, a plea for mercy.

As soon as the soldiers looked her way she put a smile on herface, but it ill concealed her anxiety. She pointed invitingly to herpails. At the sight of the water a thirsty soldier here and therewould break from the ranks, rush to the pails, take the profferedcup, and hastily swallow down the cooling draught. Then returningthe cup to the woman, he would rush back again to his place in theranks. Perhaps a dozen men removed their helmets, and, extractinga sponge from the inside, made signs to the woman to pour wateron it; then, replacing the sponge in the helmet, marched on refreshedand rejoicing.

A mounted officer, spying this little oasis, drew rein and gave theorder to halt. The troopers, very wearied by the long forced march,flung themselves down upon the grass while the officer's horsethrust his nose deep into the pail and greedily sucked the waterup. More buckets were being continually brought out. Some ofthem must surely have been confiscated from her neighbors whohad fled. The officer, dismounting, sought to hold converse with hishostess, but even with many signs it proved a failure. They bothlaughed heartily together, though her mirth I thought a bit forced.

I do not remember witnessing any finer episode in all the war thanthat enacted in this region where the sky was red with flames fromthe neighbors' houses, and the lintels red with blood from theirveins. A frail little soul with only spiritual weapons, she fought forher hearth against a venging host in arms; facing these rough war-stained men, she forced her trembling body to outward calm andgraciousness. Her nerve was not unappreciated. Not one soldierreturned his cup without a word of thanks and a look of admiration.

Nor did this pluck go unrewarded. Three months later, passingagain through this region as a prisoner, I glimpsed the little cottagestill standing in its plot by the flowing river. I want to visit it againafter the war. It will always be to me a shrine of the spirit's splendiddaring.

Chapter VII

A Duelist From Marburg

A squad of soldiers stretched out on a bank beckoned me to jointhem; I did so and at once they begged for news. They were not ofan order of super-intelligence, and informed me that it was theFrench they were to fight at Liege. Unaware that England hadentered the lists against Germany, "Belgium" was only a word tothem. I took it upon myself to clear up their minds on these points.An officer overheard and plainly showed his disapproval of suchmissionary activity, yet he could not conceal his own curiosity. Isought to appease him by volunteering some information.

"Japan," I blandly announced, "is about to join the foes ofGermany." As the truth, that was unassailable; but as diplomacy itwas a wretched fluke.

"You're a fool!" he exploded. "What are you talking about? Japanis one of our best friends, almost as good as America. Those twonations will fight for us--not against us. You're verruckt."

That was a severe stricture but in the circumstances I thought bestto overlook the reflection upon my mentality. One of the soldierspassed some witticism, evidently at my expense; taking advantageof the outburst of laughter, I made off down the road. They did notoffer to detain me. The officer probably reasoned that my beingthere was guarantee enough of my right to be there, taking it forgranted that the regular sentries on the road had passed upon mycredentials. However, I made a very strong resolution hereafter tobe less zealous in my proclamation of the truth, to hold my tongueand keep walking.

In the midst of my reflections I was startled by a whistle, and,looking back, saw in the distance a puff of steam on what Isupposed was the wholly abandoned railway, but there, sureenough, was a train rattling along at a good rate. I could make outsoldiers with guns sitting upon the tender, and presumed that theywere with these instruments directing the operations of someBelgian engineer and fireman. In a moment more I saw I wasmistaken, for at the throttle was a uniformed soldier, and anothercomrade in his gray-green costume was shoveling coal into thefurnace. One of the guards, seeing me plodding on, smilinglybeckoned to me to jump aboard. When I took the cue and made amove in that direction he winked his eye and significantly tappedupon the barrel of his gun. The train was loaded with iron rails andtimbers, and I speculated as to their use, but farther down the line Isaw hundreds of men unloading these, making a great noise asthey flung them down the river bank to the water's edge. Theywere destined for a big pontoon bridge which these men were, withthousands of soldiers, throwing across the stream. Ceaselesslythe din and clangor of hammerings rang out over the river. My waynow wound through what was, to all purposes, one German camp,strung for miles along the Meuse. The soldiers were busy withdomestic duties. Everywhere there was the cheer and rhythm ofwell-ordered industry in the open air. In one place thousands ofloaves of black bread were being shifted from wagon to wagon. Inanother they were piling a yard high with mountains of grain. Theair was full of the drone of a great mill, humming away at fullspeed, while the Belgian fields were yielding up their goldenharvests to the invaders. Apples in great clusters hung downaround the necks of horses tethered in the orchards. With theirkeepers they were enjoying a respite from their hard fatiguingexertions.

Here and there among the groves, or along the wayside, was acontrivance that looked like a tiny engine; smoke curled out of itschimney and coals blazed brightly in the grate. They were thekitchen-wagons, each making in itself a complete, compactcooking apparatus. Some had immense caldrons with a spoon aslarge as a spade. In these the stews, put up in dry form andguaranteed to keep for twenty years, were being heated. A savorysmell permeated the air and at the sound of the bugle the menclustered about, each looking happy as he received his dish filledwith steaming rations.

Through this scene the native Belgians moved freely in and out.Tables had been dragged out into the yard, and around themofficers were sitting eating, drinking, and chatting with the peasantwomen who were serving them and with whom they had set up anentente cordiale. Indeed, these Belgians seemed to be ratherenjoying this interruption in the monotony of their lives, and a fewwere making the most of the great adventure. In one case I couldnot help believing that a certain strikingly-pretty, self-possessed girlwas not altogether averse to a war which could thus bring to herside the attentions of such a handsome and gallant set of officersas were gathered round her. At any rate, she was equal to theoccasion, and over her little court, which rang with laughter, shepresided with a certain rustic dignity and ease.

The ordinary soldier could make himself understood only withmotions and sundry gruntings, and consequently had to contenthimself with smoking in the sun or sleeping in the shade.Everywhere was the atmosphere of physical relaxation after thelong journey. So far did my tension wear off, that I even forgot theresolution to hold my tongue. Two officers leaning back in theirchairs at a table by the wayside surveyed me intently as I camealong. Rather than wait to be challenged, I thought it best to turnaside and ask them my usual question, "How does one get toLiege?"

One of them answered somewhat stiffly, adding, "And where didyou learn your German?" "I was in a German university a fewmonths," I replied. "Which one?" the officer asked. "Marburg," Ireplied.

"Ah!" he said, this time with a smile; "that was mine. I studiedphilology there."

We talked together of the fine, rich life there, and I spoke of thestudents' duels I had witnessed a few miles out.

"Ah!" he said, uncovering his head and pointing to the scarsacross his scalp; "that's where I got these. Perhaps I will get somedeeper ones down in this country," he added with a smile.

Ofttimes in the early morning hours I had trudged out to astudents' inn on the outskirts of Marburg. As many times I hadheard the solemn announcement of the umpire warning allassembled to disperse as the place might be raided by the policeand all imprisoned. That was a mere formality. No one left. Theumpire forthwith cried "Los," there was a flash of swords in the airas each duelist sought, and sometimes succeeded, in cutting hisopponent's face into a Hamburg steak. It was a sanguinary affairand undoubtedly connived at by the officials. When I had askedwhat was the point of it all, I was told that it developed Mut andEnschlossenheit--a fine contempt of pain and blood. That duelingwas not without its contribution to the general program of Germanpreparedness. Only now the bloodletting was gone at on acolossal scale.

"Yes, that's where I received these cuts," this young officer said,"and if I do not get some too deep down here I'll write to you afterthe war," he added with another smile. As I gave him my address,I asked for his.

"It's against all the rules," he answered. "It can't be done. But youshall hear from me, I assure you," he said with a heartyhandshake.

Only once all the way into Liege did I feel any suspicion directedtowards me. That was when I presented my paper to the nextguard, a morose-looking individual. He looked at it very puzzled,and put several questions to me. His last one was,

"Where is your home?"

"I come from Boston, Massachusetts," I replied.

Encouraged with my success with the last officers, I ventured toask him where he came from.

Looking me straight in the eyes, he replied very pointedly, "Ichkomme aus Deutschland."

Good form among invading armies, I found, precluded the guestmaking inquiry into anyone's antecedents. I made a secondresolution to keep my own counsel, as I hurried down the road.

There was no release from his searching eyes until a turn in thehighway put an intervening obstacle between myself and him. Butthis relief was short-lived, for no sooner had I rounded the bendthan a cry of "Halt!" shot fear into me. I turned to see a man on awheel waving wildly at me. I thought it was a summons back to myinquisitor, and the end of my journey. Instead, it was my officerfrom Marburg, who dismounted, took two letters from his pocket,and asked me if I would have the kindness to deliver them to theFeld Post if I got through to Liege. He said that seemed like a God-given opportunity to lift the load off the hearts of his mother and hissweetheart back home. Gladly I took them, with his caution not todrop them into an ordinary letter-box in Liege, but to take them tothe Feld Post or give them to an officer. I went on my way rejoicingthat I could add these letters to my credentials. I now passed downthe long street of Jupilles, which was plastered with notices fromthe German authorities guaranteeing observance of the rights ofthe citizens of Jupilles, but threatening to visit any overt actsagainst the soldiers "with the most terrible reprisals."

I arrived on the outskirts of Liege with the expectation of seeing asorry-looking battered city, as the reports which had drifted to theouter world had made it; but considering that it had been thecenter around which the storm of battle had raged for over twoweeks, it showed outwardly but little damage. The chief marks ofwar were in the shattered windows; the great pontoon bridge ofbarges, which replaced the dynamited structure by the RueLeopold, and hundreds of stores and public buildings, flying thewhite flag with the Red Cross on it. The walls, too, were fairly whitewith placards posted by order of the German burgomaster Klyper.It was an anachronism to find along the trail of the forty-twocentimeter guns warnings of death to persons harboring courierpigeons.

Another bill which was just being posted was the announcement ofthe war-tax of 50,000,000 francs imposed on the city to pay for the"administration of civil affairs." That was the first of those war-levies which leeched the life blood out of Belgium.

The American consul, Heingartner, threw up his hands inastonishment as I presented myself. No one else had comethrough since the beginning of hostilities. He begged fornewspapers but, unfortunately, I had thrown my lot away, notrealizing how completely Liege had been cut off from the outerworld. He related the incidents of that first night entry of Germantroops into Liege. The clatter of machine gun bullets sweeping bythe consulate had scarcely ceased when the sounds of gun-buttsbattering on the doors accompanied by hoarse shouts of "AufSteigen" (get up) reverberated through the street. As the doorsunbolted and swung back, officers peremptorily demandedquarters for their troops, receiving with contempt the protests ofHeingartner that they were violating precincts under protection ofthe American flag.

On the following day, however, a wholehearted apology wastendered along with an invitation to witness the first firing of the bigguns.

"Put your fingers in your ears, stand on your toes, and open yourmouth," the officer said. There was a terrific concussion, a blackspeck up in the heavens, and a ton of metal dropped down out ofthe blue, smashing one of the cupolas of the forts to pieces. Thatone shot annihilated 260 men. I shuddered as we all do. But itshould not be for the sufferings of the killed. For they did not sufferat all. They were wiped out as by the snapping of a finger.

The taking of those 260 bodies out of the world, then, was apainless process. But not so the bringing of these bodies into theworld. That cost an infinite sum of pain and anguish. To bringthese bodies into being 260 mothers went down into the veryValley of the Shadow of Death. And now in a flash all this life hadbeen sent crashing into eternity. "Women may not bear arms, butthey bear men, and so furnish the first munitions of war." Thus arethey deeply and directly concerned in the affairs of the state.

The consul with his wife and daughter gave me dinner along with acordial welcome. At first he was most appreciative of my exploits.Then it seemed to dawn on him that possibly other motives thansheer love of adventure might have spurred me on. The harboringof a possible spy was too large a risk to run in the uncertaintemper of the Germans. In that light I took on the aspects of aliability.

The clerks of the two hotels to whom I applied assumed a likeattitude. In fact every one with whom I attempted to hold conversebecame coldly aloof. Holding the best of intents, I was treated likea pariah. The only one whom I could get a raise from was abookseller who spoke English. His wrath against the spoilersovercame his discretion, and he launched out into a bitter tiradeagainst them. I reminded him that, as civilians, his fellow-countrymen had undoubtedly been sniping on the German troops.That was too much.

"What would you do if a thief or a murderer entered your house?"he exploded. "No matter if he had announced his coming, youwould shoot him, wouldn't you?"

Realizing that he had confided altogether too much to a casualpasserby, he suddenly subsided. The only other comment I coulddrag out of him was that of a German officer who had told him that"one Belgian could fight as good as four Germans." My request fora lodging-place met with the same evasion from him as from theothers.

Chapter VIII

Thirty-Seven Miles In A Day

"Death if you try to cross the line after nightfall." Thus my soldierfriends picketing the Holland-Belgium frontier had warned me inthe morning. That rendezvous with death was not a roseateprospect; but there was something just as omnious about thesituation in Liege. To cover the sixteen miles back to the Dutchborder before dark was a big task to tackle with blistered feet. Iknew the sentries along the way returning, but I knew not thepitfalls for me if I remained in Liege. This drove me to a promptdecision and straightway I made for the bridge.

It was no prophetically favorable sight that greeted me at theoutset. A Belgian, a mere stripling of twenty or thereabouts, hadjust been shot, and the soldiers, rolling him on a stretcher, werecarrying him off. I made so bold as to approach a sentry and ask:"What has he been doing?" For an answer the sentry pointed to anearby notice. In four languages it announced that any one caughtnear a telegraph pole or wire in any manner that looked suspiciousto the authorities would be summarily dealt with. They werecarrying him away, poor lad, and the crowd passed on in heedlessfashion, as though already grown accustomed to death.

When the troops at the front are taking lives by the thousands,those guarding the lines at the rear catch the contagion of killing.Knowing that this was the temper of some of the sentries, Ispeeded along at a rapid rate, daring to make one cut across afield, and so came to Jupilles without challenge. Stopping to get adrink there, I realized what a protest my feet were making againstthe strain to which I was putting them. Luckily, a peasant'svegetable cart was passing, and, jumping on, I was congratulatingmyself on the relief, when after a few hundred yards the cartturned up a lane, leaving me on the road again with one franc lessin my pocket.

There were so few soldiers along this stretch that I drove myselfalong at a furious pace, slowing up only when I sighted a soldier. Iwas very hot, and felt my face blazing red as the natives gazedafter me stalking so fiercely past them. But the great automobilesplunging by flung up such clouds of dust that my face was beingcontinually covered by this gray powder. What I most feared waslest, growing dizzy, I should lose my head and make incoherentanswers.

Faint with the heat I dragged myself into a little wayside place.Everything wore a dingy air of poverty except the gracious keeperof the inn. I pointed to my throat. She understood at once my signsof thirst and quickly produced water and coffee, of which I drankuntil I was ashamed.

"How much!" I asked.

She shook her head negatively. I pushed a franc or two across thetable.

"No," she said smilingly but with resolution.

"I can't take it. You need it on your journey. We are all just friendstogether now."

So my dust and distress had their compensations. They hadbrought me inclusion in that deeper Belgian community of sorrow.

It was apparent that the Germans were going to make this richregion a great center for their operations and a permanent base ofsupply. There must have been ten thousand clean-looking cattleon the opposite bank of the river; they were raising a great noiseas the soldiers drove their wagons among them, throwing downthe hay and grain. Otherwise, the army had settled down from thehustling activities of the morning, and the guards had been postedfor the oncoming evening. I knew now that I was progressing at agood pace because near Wandre I noticed a peasant's wagonahead, and soon overtook it. It was carrying eight or nine Belgianfarm-hands, and the horse was making fair time under constantpressure from the driver.

I did not wish to add an extra burden to the overloaded animal, butit was no time for the exercise of sentiment. So I held up a two-franc piece to the driver. He looked at the coin, then he looked atthe horse, and then, picking out the meekest and the mostinoffensive of his free passengers, he bade him get off andmotioned me to take the vacated seat at my right as a first-classpaying passenger. Two francs was the fare, and he seemed highlygratified with the sum, little realizing that he could just as well havehad two hundred francs for that seat. We stopped once more tohitch on a small wood-cart, and with that bumping behind us, wetrailed along fearfully slowly. Gladly would I have offered agenerous bounty to have him urge his horse along, but I feared toexcite suspicion by too lavish an outlay of money. So I sat tightand let my feet dangle off the side, glad of the relief, but feelingthem slowly swelling beneath me.

I was saving my head as well as my feet, for the perpetualmatching of one's wits in encounters with the guards wascontinually nerve-frazzling. But now as the cart joggled past, theguard made a casual survey of us all, taking it for granted that Iwas one of the local inhabitants. For this respite from constantinquisition I was indebted to the dust, grime and sweat thatcovered me. It blurred out all distinction between myself and thepeasants, forming a perfect protective coloration.

To slide past so many guards so easily was a net gain indeed.However, the end of such easy passing came at the edge ofCharrate, where the driver turned into his yard, and I was dumpeddown into an encampment of soldiers. Acting on the militarists'dictum that the best defensive is a strong offensive I pushed myway boldly into the midst of a group gathered round a pump andmade signs that I desired a drink. At first they did not understand,or, thinking that I was a native Belgian, they were rather takenaback by such impertinence; but one soldier handed me his cupand another pumped it full. I drank it, and, thanking them, startedoff. This calm assurance gained me passage past the guard, whohad stood by watching the procedure. In the next six hundredyards I was brought to a standstill by a sudden "Halt!" At one of theposts some soldiers were ringed around a prisoner garbed in thelong black regulation cassock of a priest. Though he wore a whitehandkerchief around his arm as a badge of a peaceful attitude, hewas held as a spy. His hands and his eyes were twitchingnervously. He seemed to be glad to welcome the addition of mycompany into the ranks of the suspects, but he was doomed todisappointment, for I was passed along. The next guard took meto his superior officer directly. But the superior officer was theincarnation of good humor and he was more interested in a littlerepast that was being made ready for him than in entering into thequestions involved in my case.

"Search him for weapons," he said casually, while he himselfmade a few perfunctory passes over my pockets. No weaponsbeing found, he said, "Let him go. We've done damage hereenough."

These interruptions were getting to be distressingly frequent. I hadjourneyed but a few hundred yards farther when a surly fellowsprang out from behind a wagon and in a raucous voice bade me"Stand by." He had an evil glint in his eye, and was ready to go outof his way hunting trouble. Totally dissatisfied with any answer Icould make, he kept roaring louder and louder. There was nodoubt that he was venting his spleen upon an unprotected andhumble civilian, and that he was thoroughly enjoying seeing mecringe under his bulldozing. It flashed upon me that he might be aself-appointed guardian of the way. So when he began to wax stillmore arrogant, I simply said, "Take me to your superior officer."

He softened down like a child, and, standing aside, motioned mealong.

I would put nothing past a bully of that stripe. He was capable ofcommitting any kind of an atrocity. And his sort undoubtedly did.But what else can one expect from a conscript army, which, as itputs every man on its roster, must necessarily contain the worst aswell as the best? Draft 1,000 men out of any community in anycountry and along with the decent citizens there will be a certainnumber of cowards, braggarts and brutes. When occasion offersthey will rob, rape and murder. To such a vicious strain this fellowbelonged.

The soldier whom next I encountered is really typical of theGemutlichheit of the men who, on the 20th of August, wereencamped along the Meuse River. I was moving along fast nowunder the cover of a hedge which paralleled the road when a voicecalled out "Halt!" In a step or two I came to a stop. A large fellowclimbed over the hedge, and, coming on the road, fell, or ratherstumbled over himself, into the ditch. I was afraid he was drunk,and that this tumble would add vexation to his spirits; but he wasonly tired and over-weighted, carrying a big knapsack and a gun, anumber of articles girdled around his waist, along with too muchavoirdupois. It seems that even in this conquered territory theGermans never relaxed their vigilance. Fully a thousand menstood guarding the pontoon bridge, and this man, who had goneout foraging and was returning with a bottle of milk, carried his fullfighting equipment with him, as did all the others. I gave him ahand and pulled him to his feet, offering to help carry something,as he was breathing heavily; but he refused my aid. As we walkedalong together I gave him my last stick of chocolate, and, beingassured by my demeanor that I was a friend, he showed a realkindly, fatherly interest in me.

"A bunch of robbers, that's what these Belgians are," he assertedstoutly. "They charged me a mark for a quart of milk."

I put my question of the morning to him: "Is it dangerous travelingalong here so late?" His answer was anything but reassuring."Yes, it is very dangerous."

Then he explained that one of his comrades had been shot by aBelgian from the bluffs above that very afternoon and that the menwere all very angry. All the Belgians had taken to cover, for theroad was totally cleared of pedestrians from this place on toMouland.

"Well, what am I to do?" I asked.

"Go straight ahead. Swerve neither to the right nor left. Be sureyou have no weapons, and stop at once when the guard cries'Halt!' and you will get through all right. But, above all, be sure tostand stock still immediately at the challenge. Above all--that," heinsisted.

"But did I not stop still when you cried 'Halt!' a minute ago?" Iasked.

"No," he said; "you took two or three steps before you came to aperfect stop. See, this is the way to do it." He started off briskly,and as I cried "Halt!" came to a standstill with marvelous andsudden precision for a man of his weight.

"Do it that way and cry out, 'Ready, here!' and it will be all right."

I would give a great deal for a vignette of that ponderous fellowacting as drillmaster to this stray American. The intensity of thesituation rapidly ripened his interest into an affection. I was frettingto get away, but the amenities demanded a more formal leave-taking. At last, however, I broke away, bearing with me his paternalbenediction. Far ahead a company of soldiers was forming intoline. Just as I reached the place they came to attention, and at agesture from the captain I walked like a royal personage downpast the whole line, feeling hundreds of eyes critically playing uponme. I suspect that the captain had a sense of humor and wasenjoying the discomfiture he knew I must feel.

Estimating my advance by the signboards, where distances weremarked in kilometers, it appeared that I was getting on withwretched slowness, considering the efforts I was making. At thisrate, I knew I should never reach the Holland frontier by nightfall,and from the warnings I had received I dreaded to attemptcrossing after sundown. Sleeping in the fields when the wholecountry was infested by soldiers was out of the question, so Iturned to the first open cottage of a peasant and asked him to takeme in for the night. He shook his head emphatically, and gave meto understand it would be all his life were worth if he did so. So Irallied my energies for one last effort, and plunged wildly ahead.

The breeze was blowing refreshingly up the river, the road wasclear, and soon I was rewarded by seeing the smoke still curlingup from the ruins of Vise. I looked at my watch, which pointed tothe time for sunset, and yet there was the sun, curiously enough,some distance up from the horizon. The fact of the matter is that Ihad reset my watch at Liege, and clocks there had all beenchanged to German time. With a tremendous sense of relief Idiscovered that I had a full hour more than I had figured on.

There was ample time now to cover the remaining distance, andso I rested a moment before what appeared to be a desertedhouse. Slowly the shutters were pushed back and a sweet-facedold lady timorously thrust her head out of an upper window. Sheapparently had been hiding away terror-stricken, and there wassomething pathetic in the half-trusting way she risked her fateeven now. In a low voice she put some question in the local patoisto me. I could not understand what she was asking, but concludedthat she was seeking comfort and assurance. So I sought toconvey by much gesturing and benevolent smiling that all wasquiet and safe along the Meuse. She may have concluded that Iwas some harmless, roaming idiot who could not answer a plainquestion; but it was the best I could do, and I walked on to Visewith the fine feeling of having played the role of comforter.

At Vise I was heartened by two dogs who jumped wildly andjoyously around me. I gathered courage enough here to swerve tothe right, and from the window of a still burning roadside cafeextracted three wine-glasses as souvenirs of the trip.

Presently I was in Mouland, whose few forlorn walls grouped aboutthe village church made a pathetic picture as they glowedluminously in the setting sun. A flock of doves were cooing in theblackened ruins. Now I was on the home-stretch; and, that theremight be no mistake with my early morning comrades, I cried outin German, "Here comes a friend!" With broad smiles on theirfaces, they were waiting there to receive me.

They made a not unpicturesque group gathered around theircamp-fire. One was plucking a chicken, another making the strawbeds for the night. A third was laboriously at work writing a post-card. I ventured the information that I had made over fiftykilometers that day. They punctured my pride somewhat by statingthat that was often the regular stint for German soldiers. But,pointing to their own well-made hobnailed boots, they added,"Never in thin rubber soles like yours." After emptying my pocketsof eatables and promising to deliver the post-card, I passed oncemore under the great Dutch banner into neutral territory.

My three Holland friends were there with an automobile, and,greeting me with a hearty "Gute Knabe!" whisked me off toMaastricht. For the next three days I did all my writing in bed,nursing a, couple of bandaged feet. I wouldn't have missed thattrip for ten thousand dollars. I wouldn't go through it again for ahundred thousand.

Part 3With the War Photographers in Belgium

Chapter IX

How I Was Shot As A German Spy

IN the last days of September, the Belgians moving in and throughGhent in their rainbow-colored costumes, gave to the city adistinctively holiday touch. The clatter of cavalry hoofs and thethrob of racing motors rose above the voices of the mobs thatsurged along the streets.

Service was normal in the cafes. To the accompaniment of musicand clinking glasses the dress-suited waiter served me a five-course lunch for two francs. It was uncanny to see this blaze of lifewhile the city sat under the shadow of a grave disaster. At anymoment the gray German tide might break out of Brussels andpour its turbid flood of soldiers through these very streets. Evennow a Taube hovered in the sky, and from the skirmish-line anoccasional ambulance rumbled in with its crimsoned load.

I chanced into Gambrinus' cafe and was lost in the babbling sea ofFrench and Flemish. Above the melee of sounds, however, Icaught a gladdening bit of English. Turning about, I espied a littlegroup of men whose plain clothes stood out in contrast to thecolored uniforms of officers and soldiers crowded into the cafe.Wearied of my efforts at conversing in a foreign tongue, I wentover and said: "Do you really speak English!" "Well, rather!"answered the one who seemed to act as leader of the group. "Weare the only ones now and it will be scarcer still around here in afew days." "Why!" I asked.

"Because Ghent will be in German hands." This brought anemphatic denial from one of his confreres who insisted that theGermans had already reached the end of their rope. A certaincorrespondent, joining in the argument, came in for a deal ofbanter for taking the war de luxe in a good hotel far from the front.

"What do you know about the war?" they twitted him. "You'vepumped all your best stories out of the refugees ten miles from thefront, after priming them with a glass of beer."

They were a group of young war-photographers to whom dangerwas a magnet. Though none of them had yet reached the age ofthirty, they had seen service in all the stirring events of Europe andeven around the globe. Where the clouds lowered and the seastossed, there they flocked. Like stormy petrels they rushed to thecenter of the swirling world. That was their element. A free-lance, arepresentative of the Northcliffe press, and two movie-mencomprised this little group and made an island of English amidstthe general babel.

Like most men who have seen much of the world, they hadceased to be cynics. When I came to them out of the rain, carryingno other introduction than a dripping overcoat, they welcomed meinto their company and whiled away the evening with tales of theBalkan wars.

They were in high spirits over their exploits of the previous day,when the Germans, withdrawing from Melle on the outskirts of thecity, had left a long row of cottages still burning. As the enemytroops pulled out the further end of the street, the movie mencame in at the other and caught the pictures of the still blazinghouses. We went down to view them on the screen. To the gentlethrobbing of drums and piano, the citizens of Ghent viewed theunique spectacle of their own suburbs going up in smoke.

At the end of the show they invited me to fill out their automobileon the morrow. Nearly every other motor had been commandeeredby the authorities for the "Service Militaire" and bore on the frontthe letters "S. M." Our car was by no means in the blue-ribbonclass. It had a hesitating disposition and the authorities, regardingit as more of a liability than an asset, had passed it over.

But the correspondents counted it a great stroke of fortune to haveany car at all; and, that they might continue to have it, they kept itat night carefully locked in a room in the hotel.

They had their chauffeur under like supervision. He was one oftheir kind, and with the cunning of a diplomat obtained the permitto buy petrol, most precious of all treasures in the field of war.Indeed, gasoline, along with courage and discipline, completed thetrinity of success in the military mind.

With the British flag flying at the front, we sped away next morningon the road to Termonde. At Melle we came upon the blazingcottages we had seen pictured the night before. Here weencountered a roving band of Belgian soldiers who were in a freeand careless mood and evinced a ready willingness to putthemselves at our disposal. Under the command of the photographers,they charged across the fields with fixed bayonets, wriggled upthrough the grass, or, standing behind the trenches, blazed awaywith their guns at an imaginary enemy. They did some good acting,grim and serious as death. All except one.

This youth couldn't suppress his sense of humor. He could not, orwould not, keep from laughing, even when he was supposed to beblowing the head off a Boche. He was properly disciplined and putout of the game, and we went on with our maneuvers to theaccompaniment of the clicking cameras until the photographershad gathered in a fine lot of realistic fighting-line pictures.

One of the photographers sat stolidly in the automobile smokinghis cigarette while the others were reaping their harvest.

"Why don't you take these too?" I asked.

"Oh," he replied, "I've been sending in so much of that stuff that Ijust got a telegram from my paper saying, 'Pension off that Belgianregiment which is doing stunts in the trenches.'"

While his little army rested from their maneuvers the Director-in-Chief turned to me and said:

"Wouldn't you like to have a photograph of yourself in these war-surroundings, just to take home as a souvenir?"

That appealed to me. After rejecting some commonplacesuggestions, he exclaimed: "I have it. Shot as a German Spy.There's the wall to stand up against; and we'll pick a crack firing-squad out of these Belgians. A little bit of all right, eh?"

I acquiesced in the plan and was led over to the wall while amovie-man whipped out a handkerchief and tied it over my eyes.The director then took the firing squad in hand. He had butrecently witnessed the execution of a spy where he had almostburst with a desire to photograph the scene. It had beenexcruciating torture to restrain himself. But the experience hadmade him feel conversant with the etiquette of shooting a spy, as itwas being done amongst the very best firing-squads. He made itnow stand him in good stead.

"Aim right across the bandage," the director coached them. I couldhear one of the soldiers laughing excitedly as he was warming upto the rehearsal. It occurred to me that I was reposing a lot ofconfidence in a stray band of soldiers. Some one of thoseBelgians, gifted with a lively imagination, might get carried awaywith the suggestion and act as if I really were a German spy.

"Shoot the blooming blighter in the eye," said one movie manplayfully.

"Bally good idea!" exclaimed the other one approvingly, while oneeager actor realistically clicked his rifle-hammer. That wasaltogether too much. I tore the bandage from my eyes, exclaiming:

"It would be a bally good idea to take those cartridges out first."Some fellow might think his cartridge was blank or try to fire wild,just as a joke in order to see me jump. I wasn't going to take anyrisk and flatly refused to play my part until the cartridges wereejected. Even when the bandage was readjusted "Didn't-know-it-was-loaded" stories still were haunting me. In a moment,however, it was over and I was promised my picture within afortnight.

A week later I picked up the London Daily Mirror from anewsstand. It had the caption:

Belgian Soldiers Shoot a German Spy Caught at Termonde

I opened up the paper and what was my surprise to see a bigspread picture of myself, lined up against that row of Mellecottages and being shot for the delectation of the British public.There is the same long raincoat that runs as a motif through all theother pictures. Underneath it were the words:

"The Belgians have a short, sharp method of dealing with theKaiser's rat-hole spies. This one was caught near Termonde and,after being blindfolded, the firing-squad soon put an end to hisinglorious career."

One would not call it fame exactly, even though I played the star-role. But it is a source of some satisfaction to have helped a royallot of fellows to a first-class scoop. As the "authentic spy-picture ofthe war," it has had a broadcast circulation. I have seen it inpublications ranging all the way from The Police Gazette to"Collier's Photographic History of the European War." In auniversity club I once chanced upon a group gathered around thisidentical picture. They were discussing the psychology of this "poordevil" in the moments before he was shot. It was a further sourceof satisfaction to step in and arbitrarily contradict all theirconclusions and, having shown them how totally mistaken theywere, proceed to tell them exactly how the victim felt. This high-handed manner nettled one fellow terribly:

"Not so arbitrary, my friend!" he said. "You haven't any right to beso devilish cocksure."

"Haven't I?" I replied. "Who has any better right? I happen to bethat identical man!" But that little episode has been of real value tome. It is said that if one goes through the motions he gets theemotions. I believe that I have an inkling of how a man feels whenhe momentarily expects a volley of cold lead to turn his skull into asieve.

That was a very timely picture. It filled a real demand. For spieswere at that time looming distressingly large in the public mind.The deeds they had done, or were about to do, cast a cold fearover men by day and haunted them by night. They were in theAllies' councils, infesting the army, planning destruction to thenavy. Any wild tale got credence, adding its bit to the generalparalysis, and producing a vociferous demand that "something bedone." The people were assured that all culprits were being dulysentenced and shot. But there was no proof of it. There were nopictures thereof extant. And that is what the public wanted.

"Give the public what it wants," was the motto of this enterprisingnewspaper man. Herewith he supplied tangible evidence on whichthey could feast their eyes and soothe their nerves.

As to the ethics of these pictures, they are "true" in that they arefaithful to reality. In this case the photographer acted up to hisprofessional knowledge and staged the pictures as he had actuallyseen the spy shot. They must find their justification on the samebasis as fiction, which is "the art of falsifying facts for the sake oftruth." And who would begrudge them the securing of a fewpictures with comparative ease?

Most of the pictures which the public casually gazes on have beensecured at a price--and a large one, too. The names of these menwho go to the front with cameras, rather than with rifles or pens,are generally unknown. They are rarely found beneath thepictures, yet where would be our vivid impression of courage indaring and of skill in doing, of cunning strategy upon the field ofbattle, of wounded soldiers sacrificing for their comrades, if we hadno pictures? A few pictures are faked, but behind most picturesthere is another tale of daring and of strategy, and that is the taleconcerning the man who took it. That very day thrice these samemen risked their lives.

The apparatus loaded in the car, we were off again. Past a fewbarricades of paving-stones and wagons, past the burned houseswhich marked the place where the Germans had come within fivemiles of Ghent, we encountered some uniformed Belgians wholooked quite as dismal and dispirited as the fog which hung abovethe fields. They were the famous Guarde Civique of Belgium. OurUnion Jack, flapping in the wind, was very likely quite the mostthrilling spectacle they had seen in a week, and they hailed it with acheer and a cry of "Vive l'Angleterre!" (Long live England!) TheGuarde Civique had a rather inglorious time of it. Wearisomely intheir wearisome-looking uniform, they stood for hours on theirguns or marched and counter-marched in dreary patrolling, oftendoomed not even to scent the battle from afar off.

Whenever we were called to a halt for the examination of ourpassports, these men crowded around and begged for newspapers.We held up our stock, and they would clamor for the ones withpictures. The English text was unintelligible to most of them, butthe pictures they could understand, and they bore them away toenjoy the sight of other soldiers fighting, even if they themselveswere denied that excitement. Our question to them was alwaysthe same, "Where are the Germans?"

Out of the conflicting reports it was hard to tell whether theGermans were heading this way or not. That they were expectedwas shown by the sign-posts whose directions had just beenobliterated by fresh paint--a rather futile operation, because theGermans had better maps and plans of the region than theBelgians themselves, maps which showed every by-path, well andbarn. The chauffeur's brother had been shot in his car by theGermans but a week before, and he didn't relish the idea of thusflaunting the enemy's flag along a road where some Germanscouting party might appear at any moment. The Union Jack haddone good service in getting us easy passage so far, but the driverwas not keen for going further with it.

It was proposed to turn the car around and back it down the road,as had been done the previous day. Thus the car would beheaded in the home direction, and at sight of the dreaded uniformwe could make a quick leap for safety. At this juncture, however, Iproduced a small Stars and Stripes, which the chauffeur hailedwith delight, and we continued our journey now under the aegis ofa neutral flag.

It might have secured temporary safety, but only temporary; for ifthe Englishmen with only British passports had fallen into thehands of the Germans, like their unfortunate kinsmen who didventure too far into the war zone, they, too, would have had achance to cool their ardor in some detention-camp of Germany.This cheerful prospect was in the mind of these men, for, when weespied coming around a distant corner two gray-looking men onhorseback, they turned white as the chauffeur cried, "Uhlans!"

It is a question whether the car or our hearts came to a deadstandstill first. Our shock was unnecessary. They proved to beBelgians, and assured us that the road was clear all the way toTermonde; and, except for an occasional peasant tilling his fields,the country-side was quite deserted until at Grembergen we cameupon an unending procession of refugees streaming down theroad. They were all coming out of Termonde. Termonde, afterbeing taken and retaken, bombarded and burned, was for themoment neutral territory. A Belgian commandant had allowed therefugees that morning to return and gather what they might fromamong the ruins.

In the early morning, then, they had gone into the city, and now athigh noon they were pouring out, a great procession of thedispossessed. They came tracking their way to where--God onlyknows. All they knew was that in their hearts was set the fear ofUhlans, and in the sky the smoke and flames of their burninghomesteads. They came laden with their lares and penates,--mainly dogs, feather beds, and crayon portraits of their ancestors.

Women came carrying on their heads packs which looked liketheir entire household paraphernalia. The men were moreunassuming, and, as a rule, carried a package considerably lighterand comporting more with their superior masculine dignity. I recallone little woman in particular. She was bearing a burden heavyenough to send a strong American athlete staggering down to theground, while at her side majestically marched her faithful knight,bearing a bird-cage, and there wasn't any bird in it, either.

Nothing could be more mirth-provoking than that sight; yet,strangely enough, the most tear-compelling memory of the war isconnected with another bird-cage. Two children rummagingthrough their ruined home dug it out of the debris. In it was theirlittle pet canary. While fire and smoke rolled through the house ithad beat its wings against the bars in vain. Its prison had becomeits tomb. Its feathers were but slightly singed, yet it was dead withthat pathetic finality which attaches itself to only a dead bird--itssilver songs and flutterings, once the delight of the children, nowstilled forever.

The photographers had long looked for what they termed a first-class sob-picture. Here it was par excellent. The larger child stoodstroking the feathers of her pet and murmuring over and over"Poor Annette," "Poor Annette!" Then the smaller one snugglingthe limp little thing against her neck wept inconsolably.

Instead of seizing their opportunity, the movie man was clearinghis throat while the free lance was busy on what he said was acinder in his eye. Yet this very man had brought back from theBalkan War of 1907 a prime collection of horrors; corpses throwninto the death-cart with arms and legs sticking out like so muchstubble; the death-cart creeping away with its ghastly load; and thedumping together of bodies of men and beasts into a pit to beeaten by the lime. This man who had gone through all this withgood nerve was now touched to tears by two children crying overtheir pet canary. There are some things that are too much for theheart of even a war-photographer.

To give the whole exodus the right tragic setting, one is tempted towrite that tears were streaming down all the faces of the refugees,but on the contrary, indeed, most of them carried a smile and apipe, and trudged stolidly along, much as though bound for a fair.Some of our pictures show laughing refugees. That may not befair, for man is so constituted that the muscles of his faceautomatically relax to the click of the camera. But as I recall thatpitiful procession, there was in it very little outward expression ofsorrow.

Undoubtedly there was sadness enough in all their hearts, butpeople in Europe have learned to live on short rations; they rarelyindulge in luxuries like weeping, but bear the most unwontedafflictions as though they were the ordinary fortunes of life. Warhas set a new standard for grief. So these victims passed alongthe road, but not before the record of their passing was etched forever on our moving-picture films. The coming generation will nothave to reconstruct the scene from the colored accounts of thejournalist, but with their own eyes they can see the hegira of thehomeless as it really was.

The resignation of the peasant in the face of the great calamitywas a continual source of amazement to us. Zola in "Le Debacle"puts into his picture of the battle of Sedan an old peasant plowingon his farm in the valley. While shells go screaming overhead heplacidly drives his old white horse through the accustomedfurrows. One naturally presumed that this was a dramatic touch ofthe great novelist. But similar incidents we saw in this Great Warover and over again.

We were with Consul van Hee one morning early before theclinging veil of sleep had lifted from our spirits or the mists from thelow-lying meadows. Without warning our car shot through a bankof fog into a spectacle of medieval splendor--a veritable Field ofthe Cloth of Gold, spread out on the green plains of Flanders.

A thousand horses strained at their bridles while their thousandriders in great fur busbies loomed up almost like giants. Athousand pennons stirred in the morning air while the sun burningthrough the mists glinted on the tips of as many lances. The crackBelgian cavalry divisions had been gathered here just behind thefiring-lines in readiness for a sortie; the Lancers in their cherry andgreen and the Guides in their blue and gold making a blaze ofcolor.

It was as if in a trance we had been carried back to a tourney ofancient chivalry--this was before privations and the new drabuniforms had taken all glamour out of the war. As we gazed uponthe glittering spectacle the order from the commander came to us:

"Back, back out of danger!"

"Forward!" was the charge to the Lancers.

The field-guns rumbled into line and each rider unslung hiscarbine. Putting spurs to the horses, the whole line rode pastsaluting our Stars and Stripes with a "Vive L'Amerique." Bringingup the rear two cassocked priests served to give this pageantry atouch of prophetic grimness.

And yet as the cavalcade swept across the fields thrilling us with itscolor and its action, the nearby peasants went on spreadingfertilizer quite as calm and unconcerned as we were exhilarated.

"Stupid," "Clods," "Souls of oxen," we commented, yet aprotagonist of the peasant might point out that it was perhaps asnoble and certainly quite as useful to be held by a passion for thesoil as to be caught by the glamour of men riding out to slaughter.And Zola puts this in the mind of his peasants.

"Why should I lose a day? Soldiers must fight, but folks must live.It is for me to keep the corn growing."

Deep down into the soil the peasant strikes his roots. Urbanpeople can never comprehend when these roots are cut away howhopelessly-lost and adrift this European peasant in particularbecomes. Wicked as the Great War has seemed to us in itsbearing down upon these innocent folks, yet we can neverunderstand the cruelty that they have suffered in being uprootedfrom the land and sent forth to become beggars and wanderersupon the highroads of the world.

Chapter X

The Little Belgian Who Said, "You Betcha"

In the fighting around Termonde the bridge over the Scheldt hadbeen three times blown up and three times reconstructed. Wiresnow led to explosives under the bridge on the Termonde side, andon the side held by the Belgians they led to a table in the room ofthe commanding officer. In this table was an electric button. By thebutton stood an officer. The entrance of the Germans on thatbridge was the signal for the officer to push that button, and thus toblow both bridge and Germans into bits.

But the Belgians were taking no chances. If by any mishap thatelectric connection should fail them, it would devolve upon theartillery lined upon the bank to rake the bridge with shrapnel. Aroofed-over trench ran along the river like a levee and bristled withmachine guns whose muzzles were also trained upon the bridge.Full caissons of ammunition were standing alongside, ready tofeed the guns their death-dealing provender, and in the rear, allharnessed, were the horses, ready to bring up more caissons.

Though in the full blaze of day, the gunners were standing orcrouching by their guns. The watchers of the night lay stretchedout upon the ground, sleeping in the warm sun after their long,anxious vigil. Stumbling in among them, I was pulled back by oneof the photographers.

"For heaven's sake," he cried, "don't wake up those men!"

"Why?" I asked.

"Because this picture I'm taking here is to be labeled 'Dead Men inthe Termonde Trenches,' and you would have them starting up asthough the day of resurrection had arrived."

After taking these pictures we were ready to cross the bridge; butthe two sentries posted at this end were not ready to let us. Theywere very small men, but very determined, and informed us thattheir instructions were to allow no one to pass over without apermit signed by the General. We produced scores of passes andpassports decorated with stamps and seals and covered withmyriad signatures. They looked these over and said that ourpapers were very nice and undoubtedly very numerous, butungraciously insisted on that pass signed by the General.

So back we flew to the General at Grembergen. I waited outsideuntil my companions emerged from the office waving passes.They were in a gleeful, bantering mood. That evening theyapprised me of the fact that all day I had been traveling as a richAmerican with my private photographers securing pictures for theBelgian Relief Fund.

Leaving our automobile in charge of the chauffeur, we cautiouslymade our way over the bridge into the city of Termonde, or whatwas once Termonde, for it is difficult to dignify with the name of citya heap of battered buildings and crumbling brick--an ugly scarupon the landscape.

I was glad to enter the ruins with my companions instead of alone.It was not so much fear of stray bullets from a lurking enemy asthe suggestion of the spirits of the slain lingering round thesetombs. For Termonde appeared like one vast tomb. As we firstentered its sepulchral silences we were greatly relieved that thethree specter-like beings who sat huddled up over a distant ruinturned out not to be ghosts, but natives hopelessly and patheticallysurveying this wreck that was once called home, trying to rake outof the embers some sort of relic of the past.

A regiment of hungry dogs came prowling up the street, and,remembering the antics of the past week, they looked at us as ifspeculating what new species of crazy human being we were. Tothem the world of men must suddenly have gone quite insane, andif there had been an agitator among them he might well haveasked his fellow-dogs why they had acknowledged a race ofmadmen as their masters. Indeed, one could almost detect asense of surprise that we didn't use the photographic apparatus tocommit some new outrage. They stayed with us for a while, but atthe sight of our cinema man turning the crank like a machine gun,they turned and ran wildly down the street.

Emptied bottles looted from winecellars were strung along thecurbs. To some Germans they had been more fatal than theBelgian bullets, for while one detachment of the German soldiershad been setting the city blazing with petrol from the petrol flasks,others had set their insides on fire with liquors from the wine flasks,and, rolling through the town in drunken orgy, they had fallenheadlong into the canal.

There is a relevant item for those who seek further confirmation asto the reality of the atrocities in Belgium. If men could get sodrunken and uncontrolled as to commit atrocities on themselves (i.e.,self-destruction), it is reasonable to infer that they could commitatrocities on others--and they undoubtedly did. The surprise liesnot in the number of such crimes, but the fewness of them.

Three boys who had somehow managed to crawl across thebridge were prodding about in the canals with bamboo poles.

"What are you doing?" we inquired.

"Fishing," they responded.

"What for?" we asked.

"Dead Germans," they replied.

"What do you do with them--bury them?"

"No!" they shouted derisively. "We just strip them of what they'vegot and shove 'em back in."

Their search for these hapless victims was not motivated by anysentimental reasons, but simply by their business interest as localdealers in helmets, buttons and other German mementos.

We took pictures of these young water-ghouls; a picture of theHotel de Ville, the calcined walls standing like a shell, the inside asmoking mass of debris; then a picture of a Belgian mitrailleusecar, manned by a crowd of young and jaunty dare-devils. It cameswinging into the square, bringing a lot of bicycles from a Germanpatrol which had just been mowed down outside the city. Aftertaking a shot at an aeroplane buzzing away at a tremendousdistance overhead, they were off again on another scouting trip.

I got separated from my party and was making my way alonewhen a sharp "Hello!" ringing up the street, startled me. I turned tosee, not one of the photographers, but a fully-armed, thoughsomewhat diminutive, soldier in Belgian uniform waving his handat me.

"Hello!" he shouted; "are you an American?"

I could hardly believe my eyes or my ears, but managed to shoutback, "Yes, yes, I'm an American. Are you?" I asked dubiously.

I now felt quite sure that he was an American. Further offerings ofsimilar "language of small variety but great strength" testified to hissojourn in the States.

"You betcha I'm a 'Merican," he reiterated, "though I was overthere but two years. My name is August Bidden. I worked in alumber-mill in Wagner, Wisconsin. Came back here to visit myfamily. The war broke out. I was a Reservist and joined myregiment. I'm here on scout-duty. Got to find out when theGermans come back into the city."

"Been in any battles?"

"You betcha," he replied.

"Kill any Germans?"

"You betcha."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"You betcha."

"Any around here now?"

"You betcha. A lot of them down in the bushes over the brook."Then his eyes flashed a sudden fire as though an inspired ideahad struck him. "There's no superior officer around," he exclaimedconfidentially. "Come right down with me and you can take a pot-shot at the damned Boches with my rifle." He said it with the air ofa man offering a rare treat to his best friend. I felt that it devolvedon me to exhibit a proper zest for this little shooting-party and savemy reputation without risking my skin. So I said eagerly:

"Now are you dead sure that the Germans are down there!"implying that I couldn't afford any time unless the shooting wasgood.

"You betcha they're down there," was his disconcerting reply. "Youcan see their green-gray uniforms. I counted sixteen or seventeenof them."

The thought of that sixteen-to-one shot made my cheeks take onthe color of the German uniforms. The naked truth was my lastresort. It was the only thing that could prevent my zealous friendfrom dragging me forcibly down to the brookside. He may haveheard the chattering of my teeth. At any rate he looked up andexclaimed, "What's the matter? You 'fraid?"

I replied without any hesitation, "You betcha."

The happy arrival of the photographer at this juncture, however,redeemed my fallen reputation; for a soldier is always peculiarlyamenable to the charms of the camera and is even willing to quitfighting to get his picture taken.

This photograph happens to hit off our little episode exactly. Itshows Ridden serene, smiling, confident, and my sort of evasivehangdog look as though, in popular parlance, I had just "got oneput over me."

Then, while seated on a battered wall, Ridden poured out his storyof the last two months of hardships and horrors. It was the singleindividual's share in the terrific gruelling that the Belgian army hadreceived while it was beaten back from the eastern frontier to itsstand on the river Scheldt. Always being promised aid by the Alliesif they would hold out just a little longer, they were led again andagain frantically to pit their puny strength against the overwhelmingtide out of the North. For the moment they would stay it. Eagerlythey would listen for sounds of approaching help, asking everystranger when it was coming. It never came. From position toposition they fell back, stubbornly fighting, a flaming pillar of sparksand clouds of smoke marking the path of their retreat.

Though smashed and broken that army was never crushed. Itsspirit was incarnate in this cheerful and undaunted Ridden. Herecounted his privations as nonchalantly as if it was just the waythat he had planned to spend his holiday. As a farewell token hepresented me with an epaulet from an officer he had killed, and apin from a German woman spy he had captured.

"Be sure to visit me when you get back to America," I cried outdown the street to him.

He stood waving his hand in farewell as in greeting, the samehappy ingenuous look upon his face and sending after me in replythe same old confident standby, "You betcha." But I do not cherisha great hope of ever seeing Ridden again. The chances are that,like most of the Belgian army, he is no longer treading the graystreets of those demolished cities, but whatever golden streetsthere may be in the City Celestial. War is race suicide. It kills thebest and leaves behind the undermuscled and the under-brainedto propagate the species.

Striking farther into the heart of the ruins, we beheld in a section allburned and shattered to the ground a building which stood straightup like a cliff intact and undamaged amidst the general wreckage.As we stumbled over the debris, imagine our surprise when an oldlady of about seventy thrust her head out of a basement window.She was the owner of the house, and while the city had been thefighting ground for the armies she had, through it all, bravely stuckto her home.

"I was born here, I have always lived here, and I am going to diehere," she said, with a look of pride upon her kindly face.

Madame Callebaut-Ringoot was her name. During thebombardment of the town she had retired to the cellar; but whenthe Germans entered to burn the city she stood there at the doorwatching the flames rolling up from the warehouses and factoriesin the distance. Nearer and nearer came the billowing tide of fire. Afountain of sparks shooting up from a house a few hundred yardsaway marked the advance of the firing squad into her street, butshe never wavered. Down the street came the spoilers, relentless,ruthless, and remorseless, sparing nothing. They came like priestsof the nether world, anointing each house with oil from the petrolflasks and with a firebrand dedicating it to the flames. Every one,panic-stricken, fled before them. Every one but this old lady, whostood there bidding defiance to all the Kaiser's horses and all theKaiser's men.

"I saw them smashing in the door of the house across the way,"said Madame Callebaut, "and when the flames burst forth theyrushed over here, and I fell down on my knees before them, cryingout, 'For the love of Heaven, spare an old woman's house!'"

It must have been a dramatic, soul-curdling sight, with the wail ofthe woman rising above the crashing walls and the roaring flames.And it must have been effective pleading to stop men in their wildrush lusting to destroy. But Madame Callebaut was endowed withpowerful emotions. Carried away in her recital of the events, shefell down on her knees before me, wringing her hands andpleading so piteously that I felt for a moment as if I were a fiendishTeuton with a firebrand about to set the old lady's house afire. Ican understand how the wildest men capitulated to such pleadings,and how they came down the steps to write, in big, clear words,

"NICHT ANBRENNEN"(Do not set fire)

Only they unwittingly wrote it upon her neighbor's walls, thussaving both houses.

How much a savior of other homes Madame Callebaut had beenTermonde will never know. Certainly she made the firing squadfirst pause in the wild debauch of destruction. For frequently nowan undamaged house stood with the words chalked on its front,"Only harmless old woman lives here; do not burn down."Underneath were the numbers and initials of the particular corps ofthe Kaiser's Imperial Army. Often the flames had committed Lesemajeste by leaping onto the forbidden house, and there amidst thecharred ruins stood a door or a wall bearing the mockinginscription, "Nicht Anbrennen."

Another house, belonging to Madame Louise Bal, bore the words,"Protected; Gute alte Leute hier" (good old people here). A greatshell from a distant battery had totally disregarded this sign andhad torn through the parlor, exploding in the back yard, ripping theclothes from the line, but touching neither of the inmates. As theChinese ambassador pertinently remarked when reassured byWhitlock that the Germans would not bombard the embassies,"Ah! but a cannon has no eyes."

These houses stood up like lone survivors above the wreckagewrought by fire and shell, and by contrast served to emphasize thedismal havoc everywhere. "So this was once a city," one mused tohimself; "and these streets, now sounding with the footfalls ofsome returning sentry, did they once echo with the roar of traffic?And those demolished shops, were they once filled with the babbleof the traders? Over yonder in that structure, which looks so muchlike a church, did the faithful once come to pray and to worshipGod? Can it be that these courtyards, now held in the thrall ofdeath-like silence, once rang to the laughter of the little children?"One said to himself, "Surely this is some wild dream. Wake up."

But hardly a dream, for here were the ruins of a real city, and freshruins, too. Still curling up from the church was smoke from theburning rafters, and over there the hungry dogs, and the stragglersmournfully digging something out of the ruins. However preposterousit seemed, none the less it was a city that yesterday ran high withthe tide of human life. And thousands of people, when they recallthe lights and shadows, the pains and raptures, which make up thething we call life, will think of Termonde. Thousands of people,when they think of home and all the tender memories that clusterround that word, say "Termonde."' And now where Termonde wasthere is a big black ragged spot--an ugly gaping wound in thelandscape. There are a score of other wounds like that.

There are thousands of them.

There is one bleeding in every Belgian heart.

The sight of their desolated cities cut the soldiers to the quick.

They turned the names of those cities into battle cries. Shouting"Remember Termonde and Louvain," these Belgians sprang fromthe trenches and like wild men flung themselves upon the foe.

Chapter XI

Atrocities And The Socialist

"With these sentries holding us up at every cross-roads, there is nouse trying to get to Antwerp," said the free-lance.

"Yes, there is," retorted the chauffeur. "Watch me the next time."He beckoned to the first sentry barring the way, and, leaning over,whispered into the man's ear a single word. The sentry saluted,and, stepping to one side, motioned us on in a manner almostdeferential. We had hardly been compelled to stop.

After our tedious delays this was quite exhilarating. How ourchauffeur obtained the password we did not know, nor did wechallenge the inclusion of 8 francs extra in his memorandum ofexpenses. As indicated, he was a man of parts. The magic word ofthe day, "France," now opened every gate to us.

Behind the Antwerp fortifications the Belgian sappers and minerswere on an organized rampage of destruction. On a wide zoneevery house, windmill and church was either going up in flames orbeing hammered level to the ground.

We came along as the oil was applied to an old house and sawthe flames go crackling up through the rafters. The black smokecurled away across the wasted land and the fire glowed upon thestolid faces of the soldiers and the trembling woman who owned it.To her it was a funeral pyre. Her home endeared by lifetimememories was being offered up on the altar of Liberty andIndependence. Starting with the invaders on the western frontier,clear through to Antwerp by the sea, a wild black swathe had beenburnt.

By such drastic methods space was cleared for the guns in theBelgian forts, and to the advancing besiegers no protection wouldbe offered from the raking fire. The heart of a steel-stock ownerwould have rejoiced to see the maze of wire entanglement that raneverywhere. In one place a tomato-field had been wired; the greenvines, laden with their rich red fruit, were intertwined with the steelvines bearing their vicious blood-drawing barbs whose intent wasto make the red field redder still. We had just passed a gangdigging man-holes and spitting them with stakes, when an officercried:

"Stop! No further passage here. You must turn back."

"Why?" we asked protestingly.

"The entire road is being mined," he replied.

Even as he spoke we could see a liquid explosive being pouredinto a sort of cup, and electric wires connected. The officerpictured to us a regiment of soldiers advancing, with the full tide oflife running in their veins, laughing and singing as they marched inthe smiling sun. Suddenly the road rocks and hell heaves upbeneath their feet; bodies are blown into the air and rained back tothe earth in tiny fragments of human flesh; while brains arespattered over the ground, and every crevice runs a rivulet ofblood. He sketched this in excellent English, adding:

"A magnificent climax for Christian civilzation, eh! And that's mybusiness. But what else can one do?"

For the task of setting this colossal stage for death, the entirepeasant population had been mobilized to assist the soldiers. Inself-defense Belgium was thus obliged to drive the dagger deepinto her own bosom. It seemed indeed as if she suffered as muchat her own hands, as at the hands of the enemy. To arrest theadvancing scourge she impressed into her service dynamite, fireand flood. I saw the sluice-gates lifted and meadows which hadbeen waving with the golden grain of autumn now turned into silverlakes. So suddenly had the waters covered the land that hay-cocks bobbed upon the top of the flood, and peasants went out inboats to dredge for the beets and turnips which lay beneath thewaters.

The roads were inundated and so we ran along an embankmentwhich, like a levee, lifted itself above the water wastes. The sun,sinking down behind the flaming poplars in the west, was touchingthe rippling surface into myriad colors. It was like a trip throughFairyland, or it would have been, were not men on all sides busypreparing for the bloody shambles.

After these elaborate defensive works the Belgians laughed at anyone taking Antwerp, the impregnable fortress of Western Europe.The Germans laughed, too. But it was the bass, hollow laugh oftheir great guns placed ten to twenty miles away, and pouring intothe city such a hurricane of shell and shrapnel that they forced itsevacuation by the British and the Belgians. Through this vast arrayof works which the reception committee had designed for theirslaughter, the Germans came marching in as if on dress parade.

A few shells were even now crashing through Malines and hadplayed havoc with the carillon in the cathedral tower. During a lullin the bombardment we climbed a stairway of the belfry where,above us, balanced great stones which a slight jar would sendtumbling down. On and up we passed vents and jagged holeswhich had been ripped through these massive walls as if theywere made of paper. It was enough to carry the weight of one'ssomber reflections without the addition of cheerful queries of themovie-man as to "how would you feel if the German gunnerssuddenly turned loose again?"

We gathered in a deal of stone ornaments that had been shotdown and struggled with a load of them to our car. Later theybecame a weight upon our conscience. When Cardinal Mercierstarts the rebuilding of his cathedral, we might surprise him withthe return of a considerable portion thereof. To fetch thesesouvenirs through to England, we were compelled to resort to allthe tricks of a gang of smugglers.

I made also a first rate collection of German posters. By day Iobserved the location of these placards, announcing certain deathto those who "sniped on German troops," "harbored courier-pigeons," or "destroyed" these self-same posters.

At night with trembling hands I laid cold compresses on them untilthe adhering paste gave way; then, tucking the wet sheetsbeneath my coat, I stole back to safety. At last in England I feastedmy eyes on the precious documents, dreaming of the time whenposterity should rejoice in the possession of these posters relatingto the German overlordship of Belgium, and give thanks to thecourage of their collector. Unfortunately, their stained and tornappearance grated on the aesthetic sensibilities of the maid.

"Where are they?" I demanded on my return to my room one time,as I missed them.

"Those nasty papers?" she inquired naively.

"Those priceless souvenirs," I returned severely. She did notcomprehend, but with a most aggravatingly sweet expression said:

"They were so dirty, sir, I burned them all up."

She couldn't understand why I rewarded her with something akinto a fit of apoplexy, instead of a liberal tip. That day was a red-letterone for our photographers. They paid the price in the risks whichconstantly strained their nerves. But in it they garnered vastly morethan in the fortnight they had hugged safety.

But, despite all our efforts, there was one object that we were afterthat we never did attain. That was a first-class atrocity picture.There were atrocity stories in endless variety, but not one that thecamera could authenticate. People were growing chary of verbalassurances of these horrors; they yearned for some photographicproof, and we yearned to furnish it.

"What features are you looking for?" was the question invariablyput to us on discovering our cameras.

"Children with their hands cut off," we replied. "Are there anyaround here?"

"Oh, yes! Hundreds of them," was the invariable assurance.

"Yes, but all we want is one--just one in flesh and bone. Wherecan we find that?"

The answer was ever the same. "In the hospital at the rear, or atthe front." "Back in such-and-such a village," etc. Alwayssomewhere else; never where we were.

Let no one attempt to gloss the cruelties perpetrated in Belgium.My individual wish is to see them pictured as crimson as possible,that men may the fiercer revolt against the shame and horror ofthis red butchery called war. But this is a record of just oneobserver's reactions and experiences in the war zone. After weeksin this contested ground, the word "atrocity" now calls up to mymind hardly anything I saw in Belgium, but always the savageries Ihave witnessed at home in America.

For example, the organized frightfulness that I once witnessed inBoston. Around the strikers picketing a factory were the police infull force and a gang of thugs. Suddenly at the signal of a shrillwhistle, sticks were drawn from under coats and, right and left,men were felled to the cobblestones. After a running fight a scorewere stretched out unconscious, upon the square. As bloodpoured out of the gashes, like tigers intoxicated by the sight andsmell thereof, the assailants became frenzied, kicking and beatingtheir victims, already insensible. In a trice the beasts within hadbeen unleashed.

If in normal times men can lay aside every semblance of restraintand decency and turn into raging fiends, how much greater causeis there for such a transformation to be wrought under the stress ofwar when, by government decree, the sixth commandment issuspended and killing has become glorified. At any rate myexperiences in America make credible the tales told in Belgium.

But there are no pictures of these outrages such as the Germanssecured after the Russian drive into their country early in the war.Here are windrows of mutilated Germans with gouged eyes andmangled limbs, attesting to that same senseless bestial ferocitywhich lies beneath the veneer.

All the photographers were fired with desire to make a similarpicture in Belgium, yet though we raced here and there, andeverywhere that rumor led us, we found it but a futile chase.

Through the Great Hall in Ghent there poured 100,000 refugees.Here we pleaded how absolutely imperative it was that we shouldobtain an atrocity picture. The daughter of the burgomaster, whowas in charge, understood our plight and promised to do her best.But out of the vast concourse she was able to uncover but onecase that could possibly do service as an atrocity.

It was that of a blind peasant woman with her six children. Thephotographers told her to smile, but she didn't, nor did the olderchildren; they had suffered too horribly to make smiling easy.When the Germans entered the village the mother was in bed withher day-old baby. Her husband was seized and, with the othermen, marched away, as the practice was at that period of theinvasion, for some unaccountable reason. With the roof blazingover her head, she was compelled to arise from her bed and dragherself for miles before she found a refuge. I related this to aGerman later and he said: "Oh, well, there are plenty of peasantwomen in the Fatherland who are hard at work in the fields threedays after the birth of their child."

The Hall filled with women wailing for children, furnishedheartrending sights, but no victim bore such physical marks as themost vivid imagination could construe into an atrocity.

"I can't explain why we don't get a picture," said the free lance."Enough deviltry has been done. I can't see why some of the stuffdoesn't come through to us."

"Simply because the Germans are not fools," replied the movie-man; "when they mutilate a victim, they go through with it to thefinish. They take care not to let telltales go straggling out to damnthem."

Some one proposed that the only way to get a first-class atrocitypicture was to fake it. It was a big temptation, and a fine field forthe exercise of their inventive genius. But on this issue the chorusof dissent was most emphatic.

The nearest that I came to an atrocity was when in a car with VanHee, the American vice-consul at Ghent. Van Hee was a man oflaconic speech and direct action. I told him what Lethbridge, theBritish consul, had told me; viz., that the citizens of Ghent mustforthwith erect a statue of Van Hee in gold to commemorate hispriceless services. "The gold idea appeals to me, all right," saidVan Hee, "but why put it in a statue!" He routed me out at five onemorning to tell me that I could go through the German lines withMr. Fletcher into Brussels. We left the Belgian Army cheering theStars and Stripes, and came to the outpost of sharpshooters.Crouching behind a barricade, they were looking down the road.They didn't know whether the Germans were half a mile, two miles,or five miles down that road.

Into that uncertain No-Man's-Land we drove with only our honkingto disturb the silence, while our minds kept growing specters ofUhlans the size of Goliath. Fletcher and I kept up a hecticconversation upon the flora and fauna of the country. But VanHee, being of strong nerves, always gleefully brought the talk backto Uhlans.

"How can you tell an Uhlan?" I faltered.

"If you see a big gray man on horseback, with a long lance,spearing children," said Van Hee, "why, that's an Uhlan."

Turning a sharp corner, we ran straight ahead into a Belgianbicycle division--scouting in this uncertain zone. In a flash theywere off their wheels, rifles at their shoulders and fingers ontriggers.

Two boys, gasping with fear, thrust their guns up into our veryfaces. In our gray coats we had been taken for a party of Germanofficers. They were positive that a peasant was hanging in a barnnot far away. But we insisted that our nerves had had enough forthe day. Even Van Hee was willing to let the conversation driftback to flowers and birds. We drove along in chastened spirit untilhailed by the German outpost, about five miles from where we hadleft the Belgians. No-Man's-Land was wide in those days.

But what is it that really constitutes an atrocity? In a refugee shed,sleeping on the straw, we found an old woman of 88. All that wasleft to her was her shawl, her dress, and the faint hope of seeingtwo sons for whom she wept. Extreme old age is pitiful in itself.With homelessness it is tragic. But such homeless old age as this,with scarce one flickering ray of hope, is double-distilled tragedy. Ifsome marauder had bayoneted her, and she had died therefrom, itwould have been a kindly release from all the anguish that thefuture now held in store for her. Of course that merciful act wouldhave constituted an atrocity, because it would have been a breachin the rules of the war game.

But in focusing our attention upon the violations of the code, weare apt to forget the greater atrocity of the violation of Belgium, andthe whole hideous atrocity of the great war. That is getting thingsout of proportion, for the sufferings entailed by these technicalatrocities are infinitesimal alongside of those resulting from the waritself.

Another point has been quite overlooked. In recounting theatrocities wrought by Prussian Imperialism, no mention is made ofthose that it has committed upon its own people. And yet at anyrate a few Germans suffered in the claws of the German eaglequite as cruelly as any Belgians did. One fine morning inSeptember three Germans came careening into Ghent in a greatmotor car. They were dazed to find no evidence of their armywhich they supposed was in possession. Before the men becameaware of their mistake, a Belgian mitrailleuse poured a stream oflead into their midst, killing two of them outright. The third German,with a ball in his neck, was rescued by Van Hee and placed underthe protection of the American flag.

Incidentally that summary action, followed by a quick visit to theGerman general in his camp on the outskirts, saved the city. Thatis a long story. It is told in Alexander Powell's "Fighting inFlanders," but it suffices here to state that by a pact between theBelgian burgomaster of Ghent and the German commandant itwas understood that the wounded man was not to be considered aprisoner, but under the jurisdiction of the American Consulate.